Chapter Nine
THE CAFETERIA IS FULLY packed when Jilly and I join the queue at the salad station, with the regular lunch crowd filling the place with a comfortable hum of chatter and the soft clink of silverware against plates. Industrial pendant lights hang over simple wooden tables, and the smell of today's special—something involving garlic and herbs—wafts from the serving area.
"I need your help," I tell my friend as we slide into our favorite windowside booth, which is tucked far back in the corner. You can never be too careful when talking in the cafeteria. So the farther you are from the crowd, the safer.
Jilly adjusts her grandmother-style glasses at my words. At thirty nine, she could easily pass for someone in her twenties, especially with how her short blonde hair always had these perfectly tousled all-natural waves.
"About what?" my friend asks while twirling a small amount of pasta around her fork with the same meticulous care she's known to exercise at work, and most especially when it comes to money laundering schemes she so loves to unravel.
I look around before leaning forward, making sure no one's close enough to eavesdrop as I whisper, "I just want to talk to you about your crush—"
Jilly glares at me, and I roll my eyes.
"No, I'm not saying I have a crush on him, too."
"Then why mention him?" she asks suspiciously.
"Because I know how much time you've invested in researching everything about him." And this is putting it mildly, considering the little-known fact about Jilly being the founder and president of the Secret International Alliance of Supporters of Guy de la Rocq.
"You make me sound obsessed," Jilly grumbles.
"Uh, news flash: you are ."
Jilly looks at me in surprise. "Obsessed fans cease to see reality. And you know I'm nothing if not pragmatic."
Well, she does have a point with that, and since it's also exactly what I need to hear...
"That's actually what I need help with. Let's just say, hypothetically speaking...do you think a man like your crush—"
Jilly's already shaking her head. "No one's like him."
Oh, for goodness' sake!
"What I mean is someone rich and sought after."
Jilly's expression clears. "Go on."
"Do you think it's possible for men in that, um, category, to enter into a serious relationship with someone ordinary?"
"Like a fan?"
"Just someone ordinary, but not necessarily a fan."
Jilly sets her fork down, her analytical mind visibly shifting into gear. "Statistically speaking, yes, there's always a possibility."
"And if someone wishes to improve the odds?"
Jilly pauses, and I have to bite back a smile because I can practically see her going through her mental database of all things Guy de la Rocq and making actual computations. Who would've thought that Jilly's method of choice when tracing dirty money through shell companies...may now be employed in determining the surest possible route to a man's heart?
"Forty percent has to do with access and proximity," she says finally, her voice taking on the same tone she uses when explaining complex financial schemes. "The woman has to be around him long enough for him to know she exists."
I have to seriously fight off the urge to jump up on the table and start dancing. That's forty percent already in my favor, yippee!
"What else?" I ask eagerly, leaning forward over my untouched pasta.
"If the first one is a check, then I'd say an additional twenty-five percent would be about the woman's USF."
A unique selling factor, hmm.
I'm not sure I have that, but oh well, moving on.
"Anything else?"
"Ten percent on physical attraction."
I'm absolutely certain Wynd and I have that, which now gives me a 50/50 chance of winning a certain billionaire's heart, hooray!
Jilly looks at me suspiciously, her jade eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "Are you sure this hasn't to do anything with you-know-who?"
I can't help laughing. "You know you're acting a little too jealous for someone who's supposedly not obsessed, right?"
"I'm not jealous," she denies huffily while crossing her arms over her oversized sweater. "I just don't like sharing, that's all."
Jilly is so cute when she's denying her infatuation for her Hollywood crush that I just have to—
"Shwop that!"
Jilly's words come out garbled when I quickly reach across the table to pinch her pink cheeks.
" Shwerwushly! Or I shwon't shwell you the shwrest—"
Oh, right.
I totally forgot there's more to the equation, and so I immediately let go and sit on my hands like a chastened child. "I'm so sorry, please go on."
"Don't do that again," my friend grouches.
"Cross my heart," I solemnly swear. "Now, will you please tell me what's next?"
"Fifteen percent," my friend says grumpily, "is all about having a shared or common interest, passion, or goal."
Only one name pops into my mind the moment I realize what she's talking about.
Samuel .
We definitely have that darling boy in common, and my heart suddenly feels like it's about to burst with hope. Having Samuel as our mutual goal means my chances of making Wynd fall in love with me are now at, what, sixty-five percent?
"The last ten percent," Jilly relays, "is being there or doing something at the right time and place."
"That's so vague," I say helplessly.
"Think of it as destiny or luck."
Oh.
When she puts it that way, then in my book...doesn't that mean the last ten percent is about whether you have divine approval or not?
I reach for a celery stick from my sad desk salad and start munching on it while my brain chews over this newest food for thought. Fresh Fridays are that one day of the week I stick to a healthy diet, and I feel rather proud of myself for still choosing vegetables over the mac and cheese that was calling my name.
Jilly nudges my foot under the table. "Look..."
I glance over my shoulder and belatedly notice the way a crowd seems to have gathered around the cafeteria doors.
"Maybe we've gotten another billionaire client," I say with a shrug.
"I wonder who it is..."
I grab another piece of celery to munch on as my mind goes back to the last 10% I need to figure out about Wynd and me. How would I know if—
"May I have a moment of your time, Ms. Moreno?"
—the billionaire in my mind has suddenly materialized right next to our table?
What in the world?
All I can do is stare, celery stick suspended halfway to my mouth, while my gorgeous billionaire of ice looms over me like some avenging angel in a custom-tailored suit.